


The First Rule of Bartitsu Club...

by sksdwrld



Series: Like Oil and Firewater [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fight Club - Freeform, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...is that there is no Bartitsu Club.</p><p>No, really, here we are, tell your friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Rule of Bartitsu Club...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adsullatta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adsullatta/gifts).



> For writerverse prompt fight club, 777 words exactly, and for Sulla who asked for the three f's...
> 
>  
> 
> The Beginning of that Mordred/Gwaine verse which is now a thing.

The Bartitsu Club was everything that journalist Mary Nugent described it as "... a huge subterranean hall, all glittering, white-tiled walls, and electric light, with 'champions' prowling around it like tigers." Recently opened by William Barton Wright, it was being boasted as the newest form of self defense, and though _old money_ , Mordred was accumulating a very healthy interest in all things up and coming.

Wright had sent out a number of invitations, promising a demonstration of his new technique, which combined wrestling, fencing, boxing, savate, and the use of stiletto. Being both young and endowed with neither height nor bulk, Mordred was concerned that his business jaunts to the rougher parts of the city would set him up the victim for pickpockets and other, worse sorts of violence.

Mordred was not an aggressor himself, much preferring quiet strolls or carriage rides to boisterous games and physical competition, but he would fight if he had to, to protect his honor or that of his companion, should he ever have one.

Several of Mordred's age-mates were there, milling around, consuming the champagne and hors d'oeuvres that had been set out as a show that this club was for gentlemen just as much as the sporting club.

"...the martial art of gentlemen..."

"...an eloquent display of masculinity..."

"...much more effective than fisticuffs..."

"...an alternative to dueling..."

As Mordred skirted the crowd, he caught snippets of their excited conversation, but paid it no mind. At the far end of the hall, a fencing demonstration was in effect. Mordred watched for awhile, his fascination drawn more toward the eloquent lines of their forms as they neatly skirted one another than the clash of their foils.

Soon, Wright himself had made his way to the centre of the floor and was introducing both himself and his art. He gave a lengthy history on the development, which was wasted on a good lot of them who were growing bored and listless. But he finally began the demonstration with a solo show of some of the forms and moves they could expect to learn, followed by a round of sparring with another champion.

The grace and elegance of Bartitsu appealed to Mordred straightaway, and he was a captive audience to Wright, who had just now promised to best not one but three toughs he'd rounded up from the streets. Wright's assistant dispatched the first two, who, while ugly and ill tempered, seemed more vagrant than violent.

The third was roguishly handsome, with wavy brown hair loosely tied back with a green ribbon that matched his vest, and an easy, admirable smile.He danced into the ring, bowed to Wright, and then turned to pander to the crowd. "I'll have you know that I was promised two bottles of wine and one of whisky if I won tonight's match, and I don't intend to lose!" 

Mordred and several others couldn't help but chuckle softly to themselves, which made the man's grin widen as he winked. And though Mordred wouldn't admit it if asked, he very nearly hoped the rapscallion did win his prize, just for being such a handsome and cheeky bugger. 

Wright called the man's attention back to the match, and without pretense, they began to grapple. Mordred leaned forward, his concern mounting for the man who was pinned just as easily as the other two. But then -Mordred held his breath!- the rogue squirmed free of the grasp and pulled to his feet, bouncing haughtily and looking no worse for wear, though his hair had tugged free of the ribbon and fallen around his face. He dared to laugh at Wright, and this made Wright angry. When Wright charged, the rogue stuck out his foot, tripping him and swatting his rump as he stumbled past.

'Round and 'round they went again, with Mordred's champion escaping a pin twice more and Wright growing ever more furious. The two were well matched in strength and agility and where Wright had tactic, the rogue had stamina and perhaps, just a touch of luck. Locked with each other, they grappled and tried to throw the other over to no avail. Mordred pulled his handkerchief and dabbed his brow.

Suddenly, the rogue lurched forward. There was a sickening crack and Wright went down and was still. The crowd erupted, half of them in cheers and the other crying cheat.

Stepping neatly over Wright's limp form, the rogue took the champagne flute from one man and drained it. A handful of cheese was culled from another. From Mordred, he stole the handkerchief and a kiss. With a wink and a grin, he pushed through the surging crowd and was gone.


End file.
